The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Celestial Uncles! Spurlock chuckled, and a bit of chestnut, going down the wrong way, set him to coughing violently. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family.
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